


Sunless Garden

by Indigotuesday



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boarding School, M/M, Multi, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:41:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indigotuesday/pseuds/Indigotuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The school is for problem boys, the weird ones. Enjolras describes the things they can do as 'talents', but the rest of the city doesn't see it that way. Jehan is new and afraid, but this is the closest to belonging he has ever gotten. (Dystopian society AU in which they are also magic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Keep love in your heart. Life without it is like a sunless garden when all the flowers are dead. - Oscar Wilde

When Jehan woke he felt sick and sad and young and raw. His eyes scraped, gritty, when he opened them. The pillow was wet with tears cried in his sleep. From the way his throat felt he could have been screaming for hours, yet it was beyond his power to open his mouth and make a sound. 

Images from the dream still flickered in the corner of his mind, like an out of focus film strip. The dream was indistinct, even after seeing repeat after repeat play on the back of his eyelids as he clutched his sheets, completely unable to pull himself out. Over and over, he saw the abandoned lot across the street dug up and it was like he felt each root of grass give up and pop out of the ground, felt them shrivel in the grip of the machine and gradually die. His veins were that of the tree that would be cut down, the last one on all of their street, sliced through. 

The patch of green, his last refuge, was scheduled to be annihilated. Jehan reached to his bedside table and tucked his fingers over the edge of the plant pot, taking solace in rubbing the waxy surface of a leaf. He levered himself up to a sitting position and carefully picked up his glass of water, hands still trembling. His measured sips soothed his throat and his nerves. He drank precisely half the glass, then poured the rest into the plant pot a little at a time, gently spreading the leaves apart to get to the roots.

“Today is the day to say goodbye,” he murmured to his plant. “I will extend your regards to your brethren.” 

Slipping out of bed with care to be quiet, a courtesy to the other inhabitants of the house, he pushed open the curtains. The window was high up, just under the roof, and the light fell in dappled patches across the room, growing brighter with the impending dawn. He dressed quickly and picked up his shoes to carry in his hand, slipping into the hallway on sock feet. 

He had not been at this house very long, but every boy knew that the first thing to learn was the way out. The second board to the end creaked, it was hard to tell if anyone was in the kitchen before walking into it, and the hinges of the back door were tricky. Jehan passed these obstacles with ease, then stopped on the stoop to put on his shoes. He walked across the concrete of the backyard solemnly, with the air of a member of an elaborate funeral procession. 

Directly across the street from his aunt’s house, the factor that had made him almost happy to come here, was a tiny empty lot overgrown with weeds. There was a stunted, gnarled tree in the corner, near a pool of water. Along the front was something that must once have been a cultivated garden, with a few small potted plants and some attempted rows. One of the pots was conspicuously, to someone that knew the space as well as he did, missing. 

Jehan could hear the roar of machinery approaching from all the way down the street, the rest of the world quiet in the early morning light. The mess of crabgrass and clovers cushioned his knees when he went down on all fours, tangling his fingers in it. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of life, of this little patch of vibrancy in the middle of the giant city. The tree seemed to hug him back when he wrapped his arms around its trunk, bark snagging his clothes, reluctant to part from the embrace. 

He stepped back onto the sidewalk in reluctant deference to the machine that pulled up next to him. As he left, he plucked one of the half grown stalks of bluebell, with tiny buds, from the edge of the garden. He wove it into the braid of his hair, tucked it into the leather band that secured it. 

“Goodbye, my place and my friends,” he whispered to the savage garden and all of its residents. 

The man controlling the machine gave him a reproachful look, then drove forward. The front wheels bumped up over the curb, and as soon as it began flattening the first blades of grass Jehan found that he could not think. His brain was full of white noise, and he was so angry. The anger began in his heart, as he felt the plants crushed under the wheel. It spread through his body, hands trembling, eyes hot as they focused on the man. To Jehan, he suddenly seemed to be part of the machine, some terrible centaur with no thought of the things he was killing. 

“Just notice them,” Jehan hissed. 

Barely aware, he watched the pointy burr plants begin to rise from the ground, intertwining with the crabgrass as they went. They climbed the sides of the behemoth machine, slowly at first then faster and faster. The burrs clung to the rubber tires, the crabgrass filling in all the gaps. Jehan could feel, like it was his own limbs, the strain on the plants as the machine accelerated.

“Make it stronger,” he urged, without a thought. A vine darted in and out in between, lashing things together. Soon the barrier of plants was tall enough to reach over the edge of the cab. They clung together, wrapped around the wrists of the driver and in a band over his chest. Soon, Jehan knew that the man no longer struggled, though he could see him glaring when he walked around to survey the mass. The machine sat in the middle of the garden, a trail of crushed and shaved plants in its wake. The plants looked like nothing so much as a tumbleweed made of new life, wrapping their way around the bottom half of the machine, keeping it captive.

Satisfied, Jehan dropped to sit cross legged. He tried to help the plants that had been hurt. That was how his aunt found him hours later, sitting in the dirt with a half of a stem in each hand and tear tracks down his cheeks, sitting next to an absolute freak of nature.

Days later, she told the man that came to get him that she just couldn’t take it anymore. She’d taken the boy in out of the kindness of her heart, and couldn’t put up with strangeness as well as another mouth to feed. “I thought it was just rumors, that they just wanted to foist him off. I don’t know what, but something is profoundly wrong with him, and I shouldn’t be expected to deal with it.” 

Jehan looked the man up and down, trying to guess what form of distant relation he was and what his motivations were. The man’s clothes were crisp, though on the slightly shabby side of respectable, and his idling car was nondescript.

“Stop staring and go pack,” said his aunt. She had been much more abrupt with him since she’d found him in the garden, and she had never been a gentle person.

Jehan packed up his little room quickly, slung his pack unto his back and wrapped both arms around his plant’s pot. He did not let go of his plant, keeping his eyes downcast towards it, as he was ushered into the back seat of the man’s car. As they started moving, he stared out the window. On their circuitous route through the vast city, Jehan counted four trees.

The car approached a grand building that sat on top of a sleek, slate covered hill. The man drove the car around from the back, allowing Jehan to survey a cobblestone square with other, smaller buildings around it and a smooth concrete field with markings for sports. They pulled to a stop at the foot of a staircase set into the hill, and the man got out. When he realized Jehan was making no move to follow, he walked around the car to pull the boy’s door open. 

He gave Jehan a solemn look. “Jean, this is your fifth placement in the year since your parents died.”

Jehan nodded at the ground, that was true, though it wasn’t his fault. People just didn’t want him once they figured it out.

“I hope you can understand, then, why this is your last chance,” he said. “It’s this school or juvenile rehabilitation, and then you’ll be placed out of the city. You’re lucky that you were left money or you wouldn’t be here.”

Jehan nodded at the ground again. Out of the city was bad, they said, wild and deadly. Jehan didn’t see how out could be much worse than in, but he was not in the habit of questioning the decisions of adults. It did not tend to end well for him. 

“I’m glad we’re in agreement,” the man concluded. “You’ll keep your head down, and that will be the end of it.”

He turned on his heel and set off, walking briskly up the stairs. Jehan followed, one hand on the strap of his pack and the other clutching the plant pot securely to his chest. The stairs seemed endless, so much so that Jehan was shocked when they summited and he found himself on the stoop of the big building. There were huge pillars on either side of the door, making those that wished to enter feel very small. The door itself was big as well, imposing to match the facade of the building. Over the sparsely placed windows, shutters made them look like heavy lidded disapproving eyes.

The man picked up the heavy door knocker, banging it against the dark wood. The anticipation of finding out what the new place would be like prickled under Jehan’s skin, making him fidget. This earned him a glare from the man, so he touched the leaf of his plant to calm himself and stilled.

His plant was a good plant for that, calm in its nature. It was happy in its pot, just the right size, and it was comfortable being contained. Jehan thought they were symbiotic, he kept the plant healthy, the energy spread right to the edge of its roots and sharing when they didn’t get enough sun. Through the pain of losing his garden, which was a sore spot that he was avoiding in his mind, the plant had kept him stable. His proudest day, the brightest spot since the fire, was the day he snuck the plant up to the attic, rescued it.

The door swung open, breaking him out of his reverie. The girl behind the door was small and thin, and for a moment Jehan was surprised she had been able to open the door at all, until she went to to close it. She strained against its weight, and Jehan went to help her with his free hand.

“Come along, Jean,” the man snapped, sharply motioning Jehan to his side. He walked across the foyer to the wide central staircase, and the girl managed to shut the door as they began to ascend.

“Eponine,” the man said, turning back towards her.

“Yes, Mr. Javert,” the girl said flatly.

“Go get Valjean and send him to my office. This one is for him,” he ordered, snapping a hand toward Jehan.

The girl, Eponine, nodded curtly, and lifted her skirt to run up the stairs past them. They continued up the big staircase, then turned into a corridor and climbed up a narrower one, with low ceilings rather than the high ones of the foyer, but still dimly lit.

Javert unlocked the door at the end of the final hallway, moving down the series of four keyholes. It was so quiet that Jehan could hear the tumblers shifting, the thick bolts shunting to the side. When Javer opened the door, he gestured pointedly to a high backed leather chair that faced the desk. Jehan dropped into it, carefully arranging his plant in his lap. The chair was tall, Jehan’s legs swung off the edge of the seat like he was a child. The tips of his toes just touched the edge of the carpet, making a muffled, dusty, scraping sound as he moved them back and forth.

“Don’t make trouble,” Javert admonished him. 

Again, Jehan held himself very still. spine straight and tight. He imagined his vertebrae clicking into line to distract himself from thoughts of who Valjean might be. Apparently, Jehan was his, and he was unsure of how he felt about being owned. 

A whisper caught his attention, coming from his left. It solidified into a voice, and he snapped his head in its direction. It was coming from a door in the corner, obscured in shadow with coats hanging off hooks camouflaging it, so it could be open just a crack and no one would be able to tell. 

“Look, he heard that. Why can the boy still hear us, Courfeyrac? What did we bring you for, then?” A clipped voice asked. It was the voice of a young man, with the polished intonations of one who grew up in the northeast part of the city, maybe even downtown.

“Javert can’t hear us, and that was hard enough. I don’t know what else you want from me,” Another voice said, this one a little deeper and with the messy pronunciation of the southside. Presumably, this one was Courfeyrac. 

Jehan looked at Javert and thought that Courfeyrac was telling the truth. Javert was writing in a large ledger book, crease between his eyebrows, and did not seem to hear to hear anything out of the ordinary. Jehan was willing to bet that the sound of boys talking about him from his closet would draw more of a reaction from the harsh man.

“The boy isn’t going to give us away,” Courfeyrac assured the other. “Here, watch. Boy, stop looking over here, please. We’re on your side.”

Jehan obeyed, assuming he was the boy being addressed, and looked down at his plant. One of its longest leaves was drooping, and another stem had been snapped. He took the break between his fingers, trying to coax the fibers to knit themselves back together. His focus intent on that, he almost missed it when the voices started again. He kept his head bowed, but listened attentively.

“Would you get off my foot, then,” the first boy said waspishly.

“We’re in a closet. It’s your foot or Javert’s hat, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac retorted. 

“Stop bickering,” a third voice said. “We are gathering information, not playing hide and seek.” Despite its admonishing tone, this was a nice voice, a little light for a boy. The edges of his words were smooth, and the tone warm. The accent was neutral, that of a boy who had been in boarding school for quite awhile. 

“Combeferre, are we sure he has a talent?” Courfeyrac asked, changing the subject. “Because I am uncomfortably close to Enjolras, here, and would like this to be worthwhile.”

It wasn’t Combeferre that answered him, but Enjolras. Jehan kind of thought it was a shame, because he wanted to listen to Combeferre with his nice voice some more. His thinking was becoming a little muddled, with all the things that had happened during the day, and he excused himself the odd notion.

“Eponine said he’s going to Valjean, so he’s got to at least be interesting,” Enjolras says, like it’s obvious. “Besides, look at the plant.”

“Point. the plant is odd. Do you think that’s his thing? Haven’t had that in awhile. Joly’ll want - shh, Valjean is coming. Got to shut him off,” Courfeyrac says, stopping abruptly.

“You’re the only one talking,” Enjolras pointed out. Courfeyrac shushed him again. 

The heavy door behind Jehan swung open, admitting a stocky man. Javert looked up, but didn’t greet him. The man nodded to Jehan as he passed his chair, then stood in front of the bookshelf, with his arms crossed and legs sturdy, shoulder width apart. He was facing both Jehan and Javert, arranging himself as an intermediary. 

“Javert,” he started. When the other man did not respond, he continued, “This is the new boy?”

“Yes,” Javert said. “I’d thought that would be clear.” A scoffing noise came from the closet, Courfeyrac, Jehan thought. Neither of the men reacted. 

Javert flipped open the large leather ledger book he’d just finished writing in, and read from it. “Jean Prouvaire. Sixteen years of age, originally from the thirteenth eastern quadrant, but he’s moved around during the past year. There was an incident involving destruction of city property, causing his aunt to call the state department. She was Jean’s last remaining relative, so the school was recommended. She described Jean as obstinate, dense, and incredibly odd. He does not talk” Javert snapped the book closed and leveled his gaze towards the other man, “Sounds like just your kind of last ditch effort, Valjean.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Valjean said placidly. He picked up Jehan’s bag from where he’d placed it on the floor next to the chair, and held out a hand for the plant. Jehan shook his head, trying not to seem defiant. Valjean just gave him a small smile.

Enjolras said, “See, interesting,” matter of factly. 

“I think we’ll like you, incredibly odd new boy,” Courfeyrac said. It shocked a smile out of Jehan, one he had to quickly duck his head to hide. 

Valjean put a hand a Jehan’s shoulder to lead him out of the office. He talked quietly as they took yet another twisting path of narrow hallways and staircases, coming back down to the ground floor. Occasionally, he paused for Jehan’s response, but quickly moved on when he only nodded or shook his head. Valjean walked at Jehan’s pace, accounting for his shorter legs and near exhaustion, not at a clip expecting him to follow, like Javert. Together, they exited the main building and crossed the cobblestone square diagonally under the grimy, caught between night and evening, sky.

“This,” Valjean said as he pointed to the small building they were standing in front of, “is the boy’s dormitory. The door to your left is for my boys, and now you. The right door is for Javert’s students. You won’t really see them, outside of a few classes. Speaking of which,” he pointed to the medium sized building behind them. “Most of your classes will be there, some will be in the main building.”

He gave Jehan a moment to take everything in, cataloguing it in his mind so he would be sure of where things were in the morning. He carefully updated his mental map, marked where he might have to go because he knew he wouldn’t ask for directions, and confusion might draw attention to him.

Valjean walked forward, raised his hand, and tapped twice on the door of the dormitory. He pushed the door open without waiting for an answer, revealing a small foyer. It lead into a spacious, open living room, much more welcoming than Jehan expected from the cold brick exterior, or what he’d seen in the main building. There were young men lounging, draped over furniture, the floor, and each other, all across the room. Heads turned towards him, and Jehan dug his fingernails into his arms, wrapped around his plant.

Jehan felt like he was under a magnifying glass, all the boys looking him up and down. There were five boys in the main room, three more coming down the stairs in the corner, and all of them were looking at him. He darted little looks in return, looking for the signs he had learned. None of the boys had any obvious bruises, which was good. All of them looked like they were fed well enough, the skinny ones look like they were naturally that way and those who are sturdy filled out their frames. Not too pale, like they’d been trapped, or too dark they’d been working outside. They didn’t look overly aware of Valjean. Finished running down his mental check list, Jehan looked up at Valjean in deference.

“This is Jean Prouvaire. I trust you boys to take care of introductions. And,” he turned to Jehan to ask, “have you eaten?” Jehan shook his head, and Valjean continued. “Food as well, then. Bed at a reasonable time, be kind to each other, and so forth.”

He put Jehan’s pack down at his feet, and summarily exited, leaving Jehan and all the stranger boys. One of the boys at the foot of the stairs seemed to sense his discomfort, met his eyes with a small smile, not too intimidating. He had warm toned, caramel colored skin, dark eyes and well tamed curls. When he spoke, Jehan recognized him at once and felt he should have even sooner. The boy’s eyes looked like his voice sounded, gentle and velvety smooth. 

“Hello, Jean. I’m Combeferre. Welcome,” he said, simply. 

Combeferre moved his hand from where it rested on the broad shoulder of the boy in front of him and walked over to Jehan. He offered his hand for Jehan to shake, but took it in stride when Jehan didn’t take it, putting his hand in his pocket with a light shrug. 

“Jehan,” another boy interjected. Jehan looked at him, shocked, even more so when he found he didn’t know the boy. This boy had blonde hair, fair skin, a complete contrast to the dark skinned boy he shared the settee with, their fingers tangled together.

Reading Jehan’s look of total confusion, Combeferre asked, “What was that you said, Joly?”

Joly looked apologetic, quickly said, “Sorry, but I’m tired from class so my shields aren’t as good, and it was quick so Bossuet couldn’t help. You were thinking really loud, when he said it.”

“What?” Combeferre asked bluntly, addressing the boy holding Joly’s hand. 

“We think he likes to be called Jehan, not Jean. Joly heard on accident, he wasn’t spying or anything,” The taller boy clarified, and Joly leaned into him and nodded frantically. 

The tall, dark boy’s voice was deep, and went well with his friendly features. Jehan noticed that his hair was clipped very close to his head, but it was not a regulation because both the boys on the staircase had wild curls. Jehan raised his hand to his own coppery braid, drying bluebells still laced in, happy that it wouldn’t have to go. As he got more tired, more overwhelmed with everything that had happened during the day, it was easier to lose himself in his thoughts.

“Do you prefer Jehan?” Combeferre asked, and Jehan nodded. He was grateful to be called by his name, even if he wasn’t quite sure of how it had come about. That was something to be contemplated and deduced later, when things were clearer. He was so tired, could feel himself swaying a little on his feet.

“Here, sit down,” Combeferre said, pushing a stack of books off the nearest overstuffed armchair and onto the floor. Jehan sank into with a sigh, putting his plant on the floor between his feet with immense care. After a day spent with it in his arms, he had to focus to straighten his arms, wincing as he did so. 

Distantly, he heard the blond, broad shouldered boy that Combeferre had been standing near give directions to a few of the others. “Feuilly, would you go make sure the empty bed in your room is ready? Courfeyrac, get some bread and a cup of tea from the kitchen.” Enjolras, Jehan named, the posh boy sounding boy from the closet. 

What could have been an instant or an hour later, Combeferre was holding out a steaming mug of cream rich tea and carefully wrapping Jehan’s hands around it. He took a moment just to inhale, it smelled spicy and the kick served to wake him up a bit. He took a gulp, near scalding his throat. He was more cautious, but didn’t want to stop drinking, took short sips one after another. When he’d nearly reached the bottom of the mug, a ginger haired boy took it from him and carried it to the kitchen. The happy looking boy who Enjolras had ordered out, the teasing Courfeyrac from the closet, handed him a short baguette.

“You can have butter, if you want,” Courfeyrac offers, “or jam.”

Jehan does not really process the words, ripping little pieces off the end of the bread. He ate the ripped off portions in little bites, to make it last longer, and stopped when he was half done. 

“We have more you know,” a dark haired boy sitting in a chair near him, curled up with a notebook, told Jehan. He sounded biting, condescending, but Jehan guessed his bitterness was born of experience. “When you finish that, we have more. You’re not taking it from anyone, and you can even have more after that if you’re still hungry. Don’t be dumb.”

Jehan held the bread out to him, trying to tell the boy that this it was enough for him. He wasn’t going to take more than his share, not when he had just come. The boy wouldn't take it, said, “No, it’s yours.”

He looked like he would say something else, but Enjolras called out to him. “Grantaire, stop bothering and let him eat.”

Grantaire looked over to Enjolras, leaving Jehan to reluctantly finish another quarter of his bread. It didn’t quite fill his stomach, but he still wouldn’t finish it, almost couldn't, tucking the end into his pack. As soon as his hands were empty, Combeferre filled them with another cup of tea. The bustle of the boys around him was comforting, friendly and new, welcoming even though he did not participate.

A congenial argument broke out between the pale, skinny Joly and another boy, sturdy, with scars on his hands that Jehan knew the look of. Jehan would have stayed away from that boy, but Joly didn’t hesitate to engage him over who should do the dinner dishes. The dispute was dismissed with a quick word from Combeferre, just as it seemed Joly would pull the boy he was so close to in to agree with him. 

“Bahorel, you wash the dishes tonight and Joly will tomorrow,” Combeferre said, and that was the final word on the matter.

Jehan felt himself drifting off, over the warm cup of tea, listening to the idle chatter. Slumber climbed up his body, warmth spreading from the tips of his toes up his legs, into his stomach with the hot tea, pulling with strong gravity on his eyelids. He could not resist, his head lolled back and his hand fell down to brush the top of his plant. He drifted for an indeterminate amount of time, very close to sleep, but aware of what was happening around him.

“Can you carry him, Bahorel, or do you need help,” Enjolras asked, and Jehan heard distantly. Strong arms wrapped around his back, under the bend of his knees, and he was lifted up.

“No, I’m just fine. He’s as light as Gavroche, needs more bread,” Bahorel said, and Jehan felt the words rumble through his chest as he was held against it.

“Grab his plant, too,” Courfeyrac said. Jehan wanted to show Courfeyrac that he was grateful, but could not even force his eyes open.

Bahorel carried him up the stairs, and after some stairs and a short distance he was lowered onto a bed. He snuggled into the pillow under his head almost unwillingly, fell back into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is more than welcome - please tell me what you would like to see, especially regarding pairings. Talk to me on tumblr; I am indigotuesday.


	2. Chapter 2

That night Jehan dreamed of being compressed, squished, under near unbearable pressure. He was grass, roots, vines, living things that were barely holding on. He was so packed in, and above him was an impenetrable surface, and above that was a huge weight. Breathing was a feat, sunlight only came in through little cracks and had to be shared out among so many. He wanted to stretch out, to grow and expand as he felt he was meant to. Vitality was tenuous, the blackness so tempting. Already, so many had given in and only the top layer was left alive, pressed right up to the cement by the debris of the dead. He felt claustrophobic, drawing in gulps of air to no avail.

Gradually, he came awake, become aware of his ribs expanding and contracting with his frantic breaths in the way a plant would not. The dim illumination of very early dawn spread through the unfamiliar room, falling on the ginger boy. He held a glass of water out to Jehan, who sat up shakily and took it before he could think. Jehan drank the water, thinking of the parched plants he had just been. 

“Must have been a hell of a dream,” the ginger boy said, nodding to Jehan’s free hand, tangled up in and clenching the sheets. Jehan nodded.

“This group is no stranger to night terrors. Do you want me to get Combeferre? He’s good with them,” the boy offered. Jehan shook his head, not wanting to bother anyone else when he’d clearly already woken his roommate. 

“Alright,” said roommate agreed amicably. “I’m Feuilly, by the way. I’m going to go work over there,” he pointed to a desk on his side of the narrow room. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Jehan surveyed the room, propped up against the headboard. There was a window at the end with the shutters thrown open to let light onto Feuilly’s workstation. Maybe Jehan hadn’t woken him after all. The other boy was focusing intently, eyes going between a book and the notes he was taking at lightening speed. The boy was slight, about the size of Joly from the night before, and only a little bigger then Jehan, though Jehan thought he was older. Malnutrition in his early life, Jehan would guess from his rough southern accent and familiarity with nightmares. Gradually, the sounds of the rest of the dorm waking up began to filter through their door. 

Feuilly rose from his seat, stretching his arms up and arching his back until it cracked. “I think it’s Courf’s turn to make breakfast,” he commented, like that should have some meaning to Jehan. 

Feuilly shed his thin nightshirt, with a patch in the elbow, freckled back to Jehan. He went to a trunk in the corner and pulled out a similarly worn, but clean and soft looking, button front shirt. As he did up the buttons he said to Jehan, “There are more clothes in the main building, you can pick some out later. Do you want to borrow something for now?”

Jehan shook his head, he didn’t need to, but the question seemed to be more of a hypothetical anyway. Feuilly held out another shirt until Jehan took it and began to change. The new shirt was soft, blue-ish purple with a little green patch at the hem. It reminded Jehan of the bluebell, the remains of which had crumpled out of his braid that morning when he redid it. The association made him happy, he pulled the ends of the sleeves over his knuckles, and cautiously gave Feuilly his best grateful smile. He smiled back, unrestrained.

“Here, I’ll show you where the bathroom is,” Feuilly said. “You can wash your face and brush your teeth and things, but they restrict non-drinking water, of course. Electricity, too, so it’s cold anyway. We get in trouble for washing our hair in the kitchen sink, so it’s not worth it to try.” 

Jehan nodded, he was all too familiar with the restrictions that most people had only increased in recent years as prices rose. The air pollution surrounding the city made it much more difficult to use solar energy, though the well off companies could afford to continue production. As such, things were only getting worse, and all but the richest people cut use to the bare bone, only purifying the minimum amount of water and lighting their homes when they couldn’t see at all otherwise.

“We go down to the showers on Sundays, so we’ll go this evening, and on Wednesday as well,” Feuilly said, rummaging through the cabinet above the sink until he found a toothbrush, which he handed to Jehan. He spread toothpaste on his own toothbrush, then motioned for Jehan to hold out his own. Jehan painstakingly mimicked Feuilly’s morning routine, splashing water on his face and scrubbing it with a cloth, before they headed back downstairs.

The living room lead into the kitchen, without much distinction in between. The kitchen was long and narrow, much of the space occupied by a rough hewn wooden table. Chairs were squeezed in all around it, so that the occupants would have to sit thigh to thigh, but all the boys would fit. Enjolras and Combeferre sat at one end of the table, sharing a newspaper in between them. The light from the window the other end of the room concentrated around them, brighter there than in the rest of the kitchen, and Enjolras’ curls looked especially bright. 

“Enjolras, would you share that. It’s only, I can’t see what I’m cooking,” Courfeyrac called, from where he stood at the counter. 

Enjolras didn’t seem to hear him, but Combeferre smacked his arm lightly until he looked up. “Share,” Combeferre said.

“Right, sorry,” Enjolras made a scattering motion with his fingers, spreading them out against the table. The light almost flew away from him, and Jehan blinked at the change. When he opened his eyes again, the room was evenly lit, more so then it would be if light was just coming through the window. 

“We should get a few candles, it’s really cloudy out,” Feuilly said, going to a tall corner cabinet. Jehan stood there, unsure of what he should do, and thought longingly of his plant upstairs. He just wanted to sit with his plant, to pause for a bit, but was trying his best not to seem overly strange. Apparently, Enjolras could move the light around, but that was useful. None of the others needed a plant to be calm, and his plant would be safer and happier without being carried around. He felt awkward standing around, jittery with indecision, not knowing what he should do. Courfeyrac looked over to him and seemed to see it.

“Would you come help me with breakfast, Jehan?” he asked. Jehan hurried to his side, happy to be given a purpose. The food Courfeyrac pulled out of the refrigerator and was simple, but it was real. More bread, which Courfeyrac sliced and spread jam on, and eggs. Jehan’s mouth watered. His aunt had favored small portions of protein enriched soup that came in metal envelopes, and tasted like nothing so much as aluminum.

Courfeyrac had Jehan carry a tall pitcher half full of water, then showed him where to get the necessary items to put out place settings. 

“Just let me know if you need any help,” he directed, leaving Jehan to line up the edges of napkins for each person and arrange forks the same distance from the edge of each plate. 

Feuilly crowed triumphantly, pulling two long candles from the back of the cupboard he had been rummaging in. He stuck them into the candlesticks that sat in the middle of the table, then said, “Would someone go get Grantaire up? I don’t know where any matches are.”

“Well, speak of the devil,” Courfeyrac said, looking through the wide archway into the living room. “Good morning, Grantaire.”

A stocky boy with a fuzzy riot of bedhead, the one who Jehan had talked to about his bread, walked into the kitchen knuckling his eye and yawning. He was followed by Joly and his companion, whose name Jehan still did not know. All three took seats at the table, luckily where Jehan had already done the place settings so he could go around them. Combeferre silently offered Joly a section of the paper. Joly took it, and the other boy rested his chin on Joly’s shoulder so he could read as well.

“Light the candles, Grantaire,” Enjolras directed.

Jehan watched out of the corner of his eye, thinking that Grantaire might be a smoker with a lighter in the pocket of his sweatshirt. Grantaire sighed, rubbed his hand quickly up and down on his flannel covered thigh, and then pinched his thumb and fingers together. He leaned over the table to the candle and closed his fingers over the wick. When he took it away, flame danced where his fingers had been. He repeated the procedure on the other candle, then dropped back down into his seat, next to Enjolras. 

Jehan was taken aback to see people manipulate the environment so casually. He kept his eyes on table, until he finished with the last place, careful not to look too closely, thinking that maybe he wasn’t supposed to notice. 

A timer resting on top of the stove went off, buzzing violently and prompting Courfeyrac to swear under his breath, Jehan jumped at the sudden noise, and Combeferre stopped staring intently at the newspaper to look up at him. 

“Good morning,” Combeferre greeted. “Here, come sit.” He pulled the chair next to him out, and Jehan dropped down into obediently, looking down at his tangled hands in his lap. 

Courfeyrac plunked a plate of eggs down on the table, and announced, “The last few are a little undercooked, but they’re not raw or anything. I mistimed it and we’ve run out of electricity until lunch - dinner if you’re still planning to turn the radio on this afternoon.”

A chorus of thank yous went up around the table, mostly drowned out by Enjolras saying, “Well we’ll have to now, there’s not a thing about it in the paper. Musichetta was sure of her information, Joly?”

Jehan took the plate of eggs from the boy on his left, who had carried him to his room the night before. He thought his name was Bahorel, but he’d been quite tired at that point. Copying Joly across from him, he put one egg on his plate.

“You can have more, if you want, there’s plenty,” Combeferre told him. Jehan shook his head and passed him the plate.

“Joly is sure, Musichetta told us yesterday when she was making deliveries. Like Joly told you before, there was a riot while she was walking to work because a little boy was moving water from puddles around - just a little boy. There were about a hundred people just standing in the street yelling for him and his family to get out,” the boy that sat with Joly said.

“On the west side right? So that would be people going into the factories. If there were that many people involved it should be covered,” Enjolras said, frowning down at the newspaper. 

Around the table, most of the boys looked distressed, but not shocked. It didn’t sound unfamiliar to Jehan either. The lower class people were louder in their mistrust and dislike of people who could do odd things, while the upper class covered it up quickly, not wanting evidence of it in their families. 

“Was the kid okay, Bossuet? And Musichetta?” Feuilly asked quietly.

“Musichetta was fine, if a little bit shaken up and late to work. As for the kid,” Bossuet trailed off and shrugged.

Silence set in, except for the sound of Enjolras scribbling furiously on the edge of the newspaper with a stub of pencil he’d produced from somewhere. 

“Joly, get out of my brain and I will pass you the pepper. It’s too early for that,” Grantaire snapped, loud in the quiet of the kitchen. 

It seemed to break the barrier, and various conversations started up. Jehan tried to keep up with all of them, turning back and forth to listen to Feuilly and Bahorel argue vehemently about their predictions for a mystery serial in the paper while Courfeyrac and Combeferre talked about class. Occasionally someone caught his eye and smiled at him, in a timid way like they had collectively agreed not to scare him off. Jehan felt scared anyway, but in a tiny tucked away corner hope was starting to uncurl, like a seedling. 

Bossuet stood and started to clear away dishes. Jehan got up to help him, wiping the table off with a wet soapy cloth as Bahorel lifted the plates away. The boys around the table discussed their plans for the day, which mainly seemed to consist of completing put off homework.

“I swear, even Valjean doesn’t know what he wants for this composition. He’s just going to mark whatever I put as wrong,” Grantaire proclaimed.

“That’s because you’re supposed to think about the moral assignments, not just write things,” Enjolras said. Evidently it was a subject they had clashed over before, because Grantaire was quick to anger. He glared, fisting his hands on the table with sparks flickering over the knuckles.

Just as it looked like they would begin bickering in earnest, Courfeyrac interrupted, forcefully cheerful. “I’m going up to the library to finish that research sheet for Javert. Why don’t you come finish your ethics assignment there, Grantaire?”

He gave Combeferre a significant look across the table, who said, “We can add the stuff you’ve just written to the thing, if you want, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras nodded tersely, and the two left the room discussing quietly. Grantaire looked after him for a minute, flattening his palm against the table to stifle the sparks that had begun gathering there. “Alright, let’s go to the library,” he said, tone flat.

“You should come too, Jehan,” Courfeyrac said, giving him a wide grin. Jehan give him a tiny smile in return, almost without a thought, then quickly tucked his chin down to his chest. “Will you come?” Courfeyrac asked again, quieter. Jehan hugged his arms around himself and nodded.

“If you’re going up to the main building, you should stop by the depot so Jehan can pick up some clothes,” Feuilly said, turning to Jehan to add, “Not to impose, it just didn’t look like you had a ton with you.”

Jehan nodded, it was true. A lot of his things had been in the apartment during the fire, and much of what he had with him at school had been sold off by the first uncle he lived with. What was left was ragged, though he could only pretend he’d grown enough for it to be too small. 

“I’ll lend you a jacket, then,” Courfeyrac offered. “It’s looking really chilly out. Hope it doesn’t rain.” He galloped up the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

Jehan hoped it would rain, that the water would trickle in between the paving stones to reach the plants below. He looked into the living room, waiting for Courfeyrac to return. Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel were set up in the middle of an array of papers, spread across the rug. As he watched, Bossuet silently handed his notebook to Joly, eyebrows wrinkled in a frown. Joly scanned it quickly, then scribbled down a few corrections, before handing it back. Bossuet squeezed his hand in thanks after taking his notebook, then went back to intent calculations.

Courfeyrac came back into the room, wearing a jacket with another bundled under one arm. In the other hand he had a thin folio which he used to smack Grantaire in the back of the head. Grantaire nearly toppled over as he jackknifed into a sitting position from leaning back with his feet on the table. 

“Jehan just cleaned that table, get your dirty feet off it,” Courfeyrac admonished, in a slightly rougher than teasing tone. “Get ready now, we’re going.”

Grantaire grumbled, getting up reluctantly. Courfeyrac handed Jehan the bundle of jacket and he shrugged it on. It was warm and quilted, with a water repellant surface and big buttons. It hung loose on him and he tugged it in close.

“That’s Combeferre, actually,” Courfeyrac told him. “He’s closer to your size, and his family sends him really nice things. Enjolras’ only does sometimes, I think he’s in trouble again.”

Grantaire comes back into the room in pants and a ragged jacket. “Some people get some allowance, but me and Courf, and some of the others, get our clothes from the depot. I’ll show you how to find the good stuff, since we’re not the same size,” he offered magnanimously. 

Courfeyrac walked out the front door, the other two following. Jehan stuck right to his heels, keeping in step. They each ducked their heads against the wind and chill as they crossed the threshold. The swift wind was cutting, but made the air a lot clearer and easier to breath than usual. The stood on the stoop, which was wide to accommodate both the door they had just come out of and the identical one a foot or so down the wall. 

“Javert’s boys live there,” Courfeyrac informed him. “You’d do well to avoid them, probably.” Grantaire spat out something indistinct and venomous. 

“We have what Enjolras terms a conflict of ideology,” Courfeyrac said

Grantaire frowned, and scoffed, “Meaning they’re self-denying snobs with delusions of grandeur.”

“Well, yes,” Courfeyrac agreed. They began to walk towards the main building. “The other boys, the normal ones, stay there.” he pointed diagonally across the square to the biggest building, boxy with rows of small windows. “Avoid them too, obviously. I’m sure you’ve experienced the phenomenon wherein normal people are not too fond of us.”

Jehan had, and he nodded. They reached the back door to the main building, where Jehan had emerged with Valjean the night before. Grantaire knocked loudly and incessantly on the door frame until the door swung open, revealing the girl who had been at the front door the previous evening. Her long hair was twisted up under a scarf that looked as if it used to be bright, and she held a broom in one hand. 

“Don’t do that,” she told Grantaire, glaring at his still raised hand. 

“Hey, Eponine,” he greeted, undeterred. Courfeyrac echoed his greeting, earning a smile. She stepped away from the door to let them in. When she could see Jehan, she smiled at him too. He gave her an awkward wave, wiggling his fingers, and blushed. 

“Hey there, new kid. Thanks for trying to help me yesterday. It’s not your fault Javert is basically terrible,” she told him. Courfeyrac quickly waved a hand halfway through her sentence, and Jehan got the feeling that if Javert had been walking by he wouldn’t have heard. Javert probably wouldn’t walk by, though, as they seemed to be in the service part of the building. The back entrance was far plainer than the front, and they stood in a dim mudroom. It was small, with doors on three of the walls, including the one they had just entered through, and a staircase just a few feet in front of them. 

“We’re just going to the depot, for Jehan, then to the library,” Courfeyrac told Eponine. She waved her hand at the staircase in a go ahead motion. 

“There’s some good stuff that should fit him in the place where I usually put it. Grantaire can show you,” she said. Grantaire tipped her chin up at her, cheeky but almost in respect, as he passed her on his way up the stairs. She slapped his shoulder, then went through one of the doors dragging her broom behind her.

Courfeyrac made the most noise going up a flight of stairs of anyone Jehan had ever met. He clattered part of the way, sometimes jumped, and hit every door frame they went by with the flat of his hand. After five flights, they were on a narrow landing identical the ones they’d climbed past, on what Jehan thought was the top floor. Courfeyrac tumbled out into the equally narrow hallway, with Jehan right at his heels and Grantaire following more sedately. 

The hallway was lit by the yellow glow of wall sconces, showing the old fashioned, ornately patterned, narrow carpet that ran down the length of the hall. There were several doors, and between them portraits that seemed to watch the boys as they walked down the hall. The hallway held echoes of past greatness, not gaudy but fitting a high station. Parts of the building; the entrance, Javert’s office, were carefully preserved, but this section was more dilapidated. 

Courfeyrac threw open one of the doors and said, “ta-da,” with a touch of irony. With a dramatic motion of his arm, he ushered Jehan in and waited for Grantaire to amble in after him before he closed the door. Jehan found himself in a relatively small room with waist high wooden paneling. Wide shelves started above that, all around the room. The shelves were packed completely full, but much of the clothing was impractical, in downtown fashions from years before. Jehan can see a lot of sheer fabric, odd cutouts, and shiny finishes.  


Grantaire pinched a particularly wide and ruffled sleeve, raising his eyebrows at it. “It’s not even a matter of pride, we just don’t want this charity.” 

He dropped to his knees and started prying up one of the wooden panels with his fingernails, working his way around the corners.

“Not that we don’t love Mister Myriel, he’s great. Maybe he should consider doing clothing drives at a church where people have better taste, though,” Courfeyrac interjected, as he tried to shove his foot in a purple boot with an enormous heel. 

“Did you know he switched houses with us?” Grantaire added absently. “Eponine told me, she overheard Valjean. The special program used to be in his lodgings and he lived in our dorms, but he thought they could use the space better by switching.”

He gave a quiet crow of triumph as the wood panel popped off, revealing the space behind it that should have held insulation. Instead it hid a small plastic bin full to the brim with clothes. Jehan watched him rummage for a moment, but was distracted by Courfeyrac pulling himself to his feet using the shelves, teetering on the ridiculous shoes. He took clumsy steps, looking for all the world like an especially awkward giraffe taking its first steps. Jehan couldn’t help but giggle, bringing his hand up to hide his smile. Courfeyrac grinned delightedly at his laugh, and Jehan ducked his head, blushing. 

“Alright, come here,” Grantaire said, beckoning him. He sat cross legged with the bin in front of him, a small pile of things he’d pulled out at his side. Jehan hurried to sit down on Grantaire’s other side, tucking his legs under him. 

“Those should fit,” Grantaire said, handing him a stack of only slightly worn button front work shirts, two in shades of blue, a green, and a couple creamy white. Jehan nodded his thanks, running his fingers across the soft fabric. The previous owners had cared for them well, a few had tears mended with neat little stitches.

Grantaire shoved two pairs of dark pants into his hands. They were made of a sturdy material, and looked nearly new. “Those will be long, but you can cuff them,” he said. Jehan carefully folded them, going over the creases with his fingers. 

“This isn’t great, but it’s in good condition, and it’s warm,” Grantaire said, handing him a reddish pink bundle. Jehan hugged it to his body, warm and soft, then shook it out to reveal a slightly too big sweater. He couldn’t explain why, but he loved it.

“Oh, Grantaire, don’t make him wear that,” Courfeyrac said. Jehan clutched it to his chest again, shaking his head slightly. “Well, okay. Whatever you want.” 

Grantaire waited for Jehan to uncurl from his slight defensive position before handing him a pair of thick soled boots. “You’re lucky, your feet look like they’re tiny. Here - last, best thing.” He gave Jehan a canvas knapsack with leather straps, and helped him pack the other things into it. Courfeyrac, now out of the boots and leaning against the wall next to them, hoisted the bag onto his own shoulder and walked out the door before Jehan could move to protest.

They took another circuitous route of narrow passages to the library. Jehan gave up on keeping track, which scared him a little, made his shoulders tense up. He thought that Grantaire may have had the same anxieties, the instinct to have an escape route, but he knew the building better. Still, he touched the wall juncture at each turn, like he’s cementing their order in his memory. Courfeyrac was up ahead, almost bouncing along, but Jehan didn’t miss the way he turned his head to and fro to catch any noises. He was half the cause for their route, waving his hand to conceal their movement and turning into a side passage when they hear other boys coming towards them. By leading, he’s positioned himself as a scout, listening for the others’ rowdy noises an advanced warning. 

They came to a large door, set back into an alcove. A worn down plate was in the middle of the door, degraded engravings spelling out ‘reading room.’ A more modern plaque screwed into the wall above declared it the ‘student resource center.’ When Courfeyrac swung the door open, dust motes illuminated by the dim light of the sconces swirled in its wake. The room matched the first sign much more than it did the second. Dark shelves held old books, full of dilapidated grandeur like much of the rest of the building. Jehan felt that everything was muffled as soon as he stepped over the threshold. 

Grantaire took a crumpled paper out of his pocket, and grumbled as he walked further into the room to browse the shelves. Courfeyrac went to do the same, running his finger down a reference list in the front of his packet, but glanced back at Jehan.

“Are you okay just being here for awhile? I don’t know you can - if you like to read,” he corrected quickly. Jehan nodded, he did like reading, though it had been some time since he had the opportunity. 

Courfeyrac stood straight suddenly, “I have an idea, just hold on.”

He walked off swiftly, feet making soft noises against the dusty carpet. Jehan waited shifting from foot to foot and looking at the shelves with a little bit of wistful longing. The books all looked old, brick thick and dense. Courfeyrac returned, proffering a large book flat out in front of him with a hopeful look.

Jehan took it from his hesitantly and tried to cradle it in the crook of his elbow. It was oversized and the balance was tenuous, so he sat down on the ground. He folded his legs up, crossing them and resting the book on the intersection. Opened, each page had several intricate sketches of plants with the different parts labeled. The space between the pictures was near overflowing with small spidery text. Jehan traced the veins of a leaf carefully with the tip of his finger, precious and extraordinary. 

“Feuilly used that as a reference for one of his fan projects. I thought you’d like it because of your plant,” Courfeyrac explained, but Jehan barely heard him. 

Jehan was entranced, trying to drink in every detail of the book. He traced the illustrations, trying to ingrain them in his memory. His mouth silently formed the shapes of the words, narrating to himself the stories of plants that he had never seen. It felt like reuniting with old friends, and he could nearly feel the velvety touch of petals and heat from dappled sunlight blocked by branches overhead. The library became a forest clearing, serene and zoetic. He ceased to be conscious of the passing time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come ask me questions if anything is confusing. I have also figured out a lot about this verse, so if you're interested in headcannon, talk to me. On tumblr, I am indigotuesday.


	3. Chapter 3

Jehan drifted into reality what could have been minutes or hours later, with a feeling in his limbs and head like he had been in a very deep and satisfying slumber. Grantaire was sprawled out on the rug a few feet away, on his back holding a paper scant inches over his face. A squat stack of books sat next to him and as Jehan watched he grabbed one blindly and opened it seemingly at random. He flipped over onto his stomach so he could scribble a quote out on his paper. Grantaire murmured under his breath in a doubtful tone, seizing another book to cross-reference between the two. 

He looked up and caught Jehan’s eye, said “Don’t tell Enjolras you caught me thinking.”

Courfeyrac emerged from the aisle between the bookshelf next to Jehan and the one adjacent to it. He wore a smile and brandished a much scribbled on sheet in front of him.

“Done, finally,” he said. “You, Grantaire?”

Grantaire shrugs, scanning his paper. “We can leave. I just need a conclusion and some footnotes, and god knows I probably wasn’t going to bother anyway.”

He stood and stretched, while Jehan hugged the book close to his chest, stroking his fingers over the corner. He walked over to Grantaire and held it out, eyes downcast and filled with regret. 

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said, so soft. “You can bring it with us, if you want to?” He offered tentatively.

Letting out a relieved breath, Jehan snatched the book back to his chest. Although he didn’t want to give it back, Jehan ducked his head and looked suspiciously up at Courfeyrac through his eyelashes. Rather than Courfeyrac, Grantaire boldly met his gaze. 

“Look, all of us are allowed to have three books out at a time, if you’re enrolled in the school you can,” Grantaire said, plainly. “You can take it back with us and read it at the dormitory. We’ll bring it back with us the next time we come up, probably, but you can keep it with you for a month.”

The terms laid out for him, Jehan nodded quickly, tentatively meeting Grantaire’s eyes. Grantaire held his gaze and nodded more definitively, like a pact. 

“Now, let Courfeyrac check it out for you,” Grantaire advised, almost teasing. To Jehan, it seemed that Grantaire was not a person who liked to seem genuine for long.

Courfeyrac stepped forward and waited for Jehan to hand him the book, only a little reluctant to let it go. Stepping up to a little wooden stand, he wrote, in a careless scrawling script, the name of the book and Jehan’s own name in a large log. He offered it to Jehan with a theatrical flourish and slight bow. “For you,” he said. When Jehan took it back, Courfeyrac put his hands over Jehan’s own and wrapped the fingers more tightly around the edges. “Yours,” Courfeyrac assured. Overwhelmed, Jehan ducked his head to hide the sudden blush that flooded his cheeks. He was not used to having things that were his or people to touch him and smile at him while they gave them to him.

Jehan kept his eyes to the ground as they walked back to the dorm, across the square in the light rain, following at Courfeyrac’s heels. Gradually, with the muffled tapping of the raindrops on the pavement, he began to sink back into the state of calm he had inhabited while reading about the plants in the library. 

Courfeyrac nearly skipped up the steps onto the porch and threw open the door. His calm was shattered by chaos just beyond the entryway. Most of the boys who they had left behind were in the living room, playing some sort of calamitous card game. Just as they entered the house, Bahorel screamed something indistinct in frustration and threw his cards on the ground. 

“Giving up then, are you? That means I win,” Feuilly crowed in triumph, raking a pile of coins, bits of paper with writing, and other miscellaneous objects across the carpet and gathering them in front of himself.

“Hold on, I’m still in, I’m still in,” Joly protested, waving around his hand of cards. It seemed as if that set everyone off - Joly trying to grab things from the pile of loot as Feuilly slapped his hand away. Both were yelling, while Bossuet and Bahorel also erupted in an argument, hands flailing.. 

It was a small room, to contain all the noise and movement. Jehan felt, more than he made the decision for it to happen, his cupped hands rising to clamp down over his ears. He closed his eyes tightly against the rising tide of chaos in the room. As he tried to slow the pace of his breaths they only came faster, puffing out against his chest when he tucked his head down. It took a moment for anyone to notice, as the others’ attention was consumed by the argument. Gradually, Grantaire became aware of an unsettling sound and when he turned he realised that it is the off-rhythm cadence of Jehan’s breathing. He reached out and grabbed Jehan’s elbow to claim his attention. Jehan flinched away, curling in on himself and tucking his arms into his chest without uncovering his ears. 

“Combeferre,” Grantaire yelled, harsh tone cutting through the chaos. Within an instant, Combeferre came down the stairs at a clip, alarmed by Grantaire’s uncommon urgency. He beelined for Jehan, but hesitated to touch him.  
His arrival drew everyone's attention to Jehan, though it didn’t managed to quiet them down much. Jehan could feel their eyes on him and he just hated it. 

“Come with me, would you?” Combeferre asked him. “We can leave all of these clods to whatever it is they’re doing.” He spoke clearly and a little loudly, but that was the only way he acknowledged Jehan’s condition. Jehan imagined that his seemingly unshakable calm was the reason that Grantaire had called him, that all of them were looking to him now as the yelling gradually ceased. Jehan slowly, reluctantly, opened his eyes and uncovered his ears, as the disarray had diminished. Combeferre met his eyes for a moment, then turned and lead him away. “Carry on,” Combeferre called to the others as they walked up the stairs. In their wake they left the card game starting up again with another argument, over whose turn should come first as Feuilly claimed to be the youngest but didn’t actually know his birthday, and hadn’t he just said he was oldest last week. 

Combeferre shook his head fondly, then turned back to Jehan. “Look, I’m not going to leave you alone right now because I want you to be safe. We don’t know each other that well yet, so I’d feel a lot better if you’d stay with me, where I can watch you,” Combeferre explained matter-of-factly. Jehan liked that Combeferre spoke clearly and explained things to him, as if he was asking questions, although he was as silent as ever. 

They walked the length of the hallway that held Jehan and Feuilly room, along with the bathroom and the doors to what he could only reasonably assume were other bedrooms. When they reached the far wall, Combeferre stretched up to the ceiling and pulled down a ladder. He climbed up and Jehan followed carefully, hesitantly. 

The attic could be charitably called cozy, as it was small and all the furniture crammed in close together. It had the stock furniture provided in Jehan’s room downstairs, but beds and all it was all shoved to the sides of the room, bed frames bumping up against the sloping ceiling. This space conservation left room for crates of newspapers, roughly printed pamphlets, and the occasional shabby book with the emblematic black “banned” stamped across its old fashioned cover. Crates were stacked on their sides to form shelves against the back wall, behind Jehan as he ascended the ladder. On the opposite wall a large map was tacked up, and Enjolras was standing in front of it. He held a highlighter poised in one hand, a black pen in the other. As they summited the ladder he looked expectantly at Combeferre. 

“I think we’re underestimating the capabilities of the South, Combeferre, I mean the population density alone should mean it would be very hard to restore control,” Enjolras said. Combeferre scoffed, raised an eyebrow. He crossed the room and took the pen from Enjolras’ hand. As Combeferre scrutinised Enjolras’ work on the map, seemingly correcting the positioning of some symbols that had no meaning to Jehan, Enjolras slowly looked him over. “Are you sure he should be here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Combeferre answered plainly, absently, as he checked through an equation on a piece of paper he’d scooped off the floor. “He’ll keep a secret and I am quite sure he has the interest of the people at heart.”

If there was anything that Jehan could do, since he did not speak to others as a general rule, it was keep a secret. However, and he wasn’t sure what gave him this impression, he thought that these boys were not relying on his silence thus far as assurance that he would not reveal anything. It felt a little like they were being paranoid to think that a silent boy would talk only to tell their secrets, but also a little like they trusted him not to, a fragile golden glow.

“Come check this through again, would you,” Combeferre said. “I swear, it’s like you slept through every bit of arithmetic.”

“I might as well have, and you should know - you were there for most of it,” Enjolras replied, fondly. He settled back down with the paper. Combeferre turned to Jehan, who stood just inside the opening where they had come in, rather at odds for what to do. “Sit, make yourself at home,” he invited, before looking around and noting that there was not a paperless surface in the room. “Just move whatever you need to,” he added. 

Jehan went to the bed nearest bed, wondering if Enjolras and Combeferre slept side by side on the two beds squished together or moved them at night. He wondered if they sleep at all, or just stay up having hushed conversations as they were then. If they did sleep, it must have been like birds perched in a crinkling nest, the layer of paper detritus was so expansive that it took the place of bedcovering and so thick that it rose to the level of the pillow. Intimidated by the idea of ruining some complex organisational system that only looked like a mess of paper, and too tired to think too much about other options, Jehan quietly curled up on the floor. He pulled his new, warm, soft, sweater out of his knapsack and bundled it up between his head and arm. It took him no time at all to drift off, to the sound of Combeferre and Enjolras’ amiable conversation. Blessedly, he slept too lightly to sink into dreams. 

When he woke it was to someone shaking his shoulder. Though this person was far gentler than she would be, Jehan was nonetheless shocked when he opened his eyes to find Courfeyrac quietly urging him to come down to dinner, rather than his aunt with more incessant uring to get up already and do the dusting, or some such. 

“Hello sleepyhead,” Courfeyrac greeted when Jehan slowly blinked his eyes open, voice gentle and soft. “Would you come eat something?” Still rather disorientated, Jehan just blinked up at him, lids heavy, before he levered himself up to sitting. He found himself nose to nose to Courfeyrac, eyes widening suddenly at their proximity. Courfeyrac, evidently having seen his discomfort, hopped up to stand and reached down a hand to help Jehan up. 

Jehan stood up on his own, wobbling for a second as he took a moment to rub his tired eyes, but as they walked downstairs he carefully, deliberately brushed the side of his hand against the one that Courfeyrac had offered him. The sides of their pinkies touched, leaving Jehan feeling warm as anything from the mere second of contact, before Jehan pulled away. As they entered the kitchen, Jehan kept his arms carefully crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched in slightly. 

The lights were off in the kitchen, as they had been throughout the house, though all of the boys were gathered in it. A radio fizzed in the background, quiet conversations took place around the table. Jehan took the same place he had at breakfast, Bahorel shifting to make room for him to get in before continuing to bicker with Feuilly, talking straight over Jehan. Occasionally he looked to him as if to say ‘right?’ before resuming his conversation, apparently taking Jehan’s silence and bemused expression as enthusiastic agreement. 

The candle light was spread out more evenly than it should rightfully be, Enjolras’ fingers occasionally twitching to temper a more enthusiastically flickering patch, but they did not have many candles and the room was still rather dim. The weight of sleep dragged at Jehan and, although they were not quite touching, he could feel the warmth of Bahorel and Feuilly at his sides. He was drifting a little, even as he mechanically spooned soup into his mouth, imagining himself as jewel green jungle moss growing in the sun, like a picture in his book. 

The radio fuzzed to a stop just as the stove, on very low to keep the soup at least lukewarm, clicked off. “That’s the last of it,” Combeferre said. “We’ll be more careful tomorrow, and we won’t need the radio, but everyone bring candles up to your room. Grantaire, could you stop by and light them?” Grantaire nodded his assent before passing Jehan a chunk of bread. Jehan though that Grantaire may have guessed the fate of the bread that he had encouraged Jehan to eat the previous evening - carefully hidden in the back of a drawer. Maybe Grantaire even knew that he itched to add to it, constant nagging thought that one day’s supplies wouldn’t do him much good. Grantaire seemed like someone who would understand something like that. 

After dinner, Jehan moved to the sink along with Joly to do the dishes. They worked in silence, but Joly handed him new dishes exactly when he was ready. Bossuet was clearing the table, hand stroking over the small of Joly’s back each time he passed by. As he stepped out of kitchen. Jehan was met by Feuilly, who handed him a worn soft towel and a smaller rag. Barely a minute later, clearly on a set schedule, there was a knock on the door. Combeferre opened the door to Valjean and the boys, all assembled and waiting, followed him single file down the path to the showers. They were located in a larger building set a bit outside the square of main square. It was much larger than their group needed, and Jehan thought about how there must of been far more normal students then those like them, not that it came as much of a surprise. 

Just before he entered a shower stall, Joly murmured “Jehan,” and led him just off to the side with Bossuet trailing behind. He held forward a bar of creamy white soap, with little purple bits - maybe lavender? “It’s for your -” Joly started to explain. “Don’t worry! It’s for your, and you can just have it you don’t have to give me anything.” 

“It’s because you have long hair,” Bossuet said, catching Joly’s fluttering hand and pressing the bar of soap into Jehan’s. “Musichetta makes them, where she works, and it’s not much use to me.” He gestured to his cropped short hair with a smile. “Joly’s already had some, so there you go.” He walked off, tugging Joly with him, before Jehan has a chance to give it back. 

He ducked into a stall, washing quickly in the cold water with soap out of a dispenser in the wall.The special soap was creamy and smelled nice when he rubbed it over his hair, leaving it smooth and soft in its wake. After he had rinsed off, quickly dressed, and rejoined most of the rest in the antechamber waiting for the stragglers, it was easy to tug the tangles out of his hair before braiding it. He smiled deliberately at Joly when he came out of the shower, as bold as he could manage, toying with the end of his braid. Joly grinned gleefully back, grabbing Bossuet’s hand and swinging it in between them, a pair in the middle of their single file line back to the dormitory. 

Jehan stumbled up the stairs on the heels of the other boys, struggled into a nightshirt that seemed to be fighting him every step of the way, and fell into bed. 

“Good night, Jehan,” Feuilly mumbled. He blew out the candle, missing Jehan’s sleepy, unguarded smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> indigotuesday on tumblr.


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